Peter Pays his Rent
by George Lucas Official
Summary: Peter NEEDS to pay Mr Ditkovitch and fast.


It was a terribly cold winter night. New York city was humming with the promise of a great Christmas to come. Everyone was full of the seasonal spirit, with mistletoe garnishing every doorway in sight and the joyful jingle of carols ringing in the distance.

Penis Parker walked down Broadway with a smile plastered on his pasty white visage. Today was the day he was finally going to present MJ her engagement ring! It was 3 years after the events of Spider-Man 3, and Peter felt as though they were finally ready to accept one another for life. So it was that Peter confidently marched up to the window of Pandora Jewellers, seeing that very same old employee who had smiled knowingly at him years before. Peter waved in an annoyingly buyant fashion through the mirror before continuing his walk, hoping instead to be able to bum another ring off of his Aunt May. There was no way he was using his hard earned pizza-time cash on an expensive ring when it didn't work out too well the last time!

Peter reached his apartment in a blur of snow and speed. With a brisk walk he climbed up the floors. First...Second...Third...until he reached the ninth floor with time to spare. He hummed his favourite "Spider-Man" tune from this year's annual "Spider-Man" celebration, and was just pulling out his keys when he heard the unforgiving sound of Mr Ditkovich, his Romanian landlord, creaking open his at the same time.

"Rent?" croaked the unusually attractive elder, cocking an expectant eyebrow at the now flustered Peter. How could he have forgotten _again?_

"Mr Ditkovich!" started Peter in a forced jovial tone, "I was just thinking about that, and-"

"Bah!" spat out Ditkovich in frustration. "Peter, I need rent! Is not easy being landlord in the great America!"

Peter nodded his agreement, knowing how hard it was for some of the less fortunate folks of New York to scrape by.

"I'm sorry, Mr Ditkovich. I promise that tonight I'll bring you your rent."

Ditkovich nodded, giving a huff of approval before slamming the door. Peter stood for a moment in the silence, letting his failure wash over him again. He would make good on his promise, all right. He would get Ditkovich his money. The only question was _how._

Two hours later Peter was all suited up and ready to go. His winter spider-suit, equipped with interior heat trapping cotton, helped protect him against the worst of the elements this time of the year. He stood on his balcony, letting the energy of New York city fill him, before leaping off. Down he fell, the wind whistling in his ears, and sprang out a hand spinning web. It caught the nearest building, pulling Peter down and up with it's momentum. Over and under buildings at incredible velocities he did go, until finally he reached his Aunt May's apartment building.

Three years later and Aunt May was still behind the times with the bank. Peter knew how serious the trouble was. She was on the brink of being evicted from her home, and had no one else in the world except her precious nephew. In earlier times, Peter might have teared up at the sentiment. Now, only his problems mattered.

With a bellowing cry he arched his legs and swung straight into Aunt May's kitchen window. He burst inside into a perfectly executed tuck and roll, shattering glass everywhere. He heard his Aunt wake with a startled gasp from her bedroom. Wasting no time, he sprung straight up and crawled along the ceiling under the cover of the shadows. He reached his Aunt's bedroom in no time, edging himself in silently.

With an amused smile under his mask, he saw that Aunt May had extracted a double barrel slug shotgun from somewhere. The poor thing couldn't even hold it up properly.

Pathetic.

"Who's there!" demanded May in a shaky tone. "I warn you, I'm armed!"

Her answer was a spray of webbing emanating from the corner of the ceiling Peter was hiding in. The shotgun was ripped violently from her grasp, taking both of her frail and bony hands along with it. He held up the severed limbs and shook out the many rings that adorned the curled fingers, letting them fall into his Spider-Pocket ™. She fell to her knees and sobbed in agony, reciting the Lord's prayer almost instantaneously.

Peter fell with athletic grace in front of the bleeding cow. He walked slowly as she leaned forward, hunched and blinded from the pain.

"Thy will be done…" May was saying in between ragged sobs. Peter decided he had enough of the charade.

"Your credit card information," Peter said in an altered, raspier voice. "What is it?"

May looked confused as ever at these words, but no less hurt, instead crawling desperately to her bedside table where she must keep her sensitive information.

"Out of the way!" demanded Peter roughly, kicking her head to the ground as he tore open the contents of the desk. He found the little slip of paper with the corresponding information quickly, stuffing it inside his Spider-Bra ™ , and hopped out of the smashed window before the police would arrive. Peter knew she would be alright. She always recovered within the week.

"Peter, this is excellent! How did you do this so quickly?" Ditkovich was in ecstasy, holding up the fat stack of twenty dollar bills Peter had just handed him.

Peter shrugged embarrassedly and said with a dogged grin, "you've gotta do what you've gotta do!"

Ditkovich clapped a soulful hand on Peter's shoulder, chuckling as he retreated back inside his den. In the landing hall, Peter's smile was slowly sliding off his face. Sure, he did what he set out to do...but it wasn't enough. There was something missing about the encounter, something...physical.

Peter sighed, rubbing his closed eyes with his hands. Was he not supposed to have what he wanted? The rent and it's gifts were excellent but...Peter wanted Mr Ditkovich.

Bad.

With resigned determination, Peter strode back to Ditkovich door and hammered on it three times with his fist. There was some scuffling from the inside before the door creaked slowly open. But...no one had opened it. With a confused expression Peter strode slowly inside. And what he saw blew his fucking mind.

In the center of the room, Mr Ditkovich lay strapped to a wooden table, dressed in nothing but a Spider-Man loincloth, just barely covering his "foreign affairs". He growled expectedly at Peter like a fox as he walked in. Slowly, but surely, Peter let a smile adorn his good-natured face, and the game was on.

Peter ran full tilt at the helpless Ditkovich, putting all of his weight into his right shoulder, and let it rip. The force struck Ditkovich with the power of someone genetically enhanced, but Peter knew he could take it. He had to.

Another snarl from the table let Peter know that Ditkovich was becoming impatient, so Peter got to work. He ripped off all of his clothes in but a single swipe of his stickied fingers. He threw them off to the side, his super senses alerting him that Ditkovich was soon going to burst from anticipation.

At last, he was ready. Peter got down on all fours and crawled like a spider over his soon to be victim. With a constant flow of webbing he kept Ditkovich tied in place all over...minus his penis. His only exposed flesh was now harder than the Green Goblin's metallic nipples, ready for the taking.

Much like a spider, Peter placed his eating hole directly at the Ditko-Dick, but with a twist: he wasn't sucking for cum...he was sucking for blood...which was exactly what he did.

Gallons upon gallons of blood per minute flowed from the landlord's holy sepulcher while Peter ingested ravenously. He had to keep his web supply up somehow.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, Ditkovich lay quite still, white as a ghost, a look of simple peace etched onto his dead features. Peter stood up tall with a proud stance. Now he had _really_ set out to do what he had to do.

There was a sound off to his left. Peter turned and saw Ditkovich own daughter, Ursula, standing and holding what seemed to be a plate of cookies with almonds in them. His favorite. She showed no sign of remorse at the sight of her dead and webbed father, motionless on the table. Peter locked eyes with her, and knew what had already been answered.

He had fresh blood.


End file.
